Backstage Mouse
by Backstage
Summary: The tale of Belle Malone, and just what business she had with one of the greatest group of newsboys that ever was.
1. The Funeral of John Malone

_It's been a while, but welcome to my newest story. It'll be several chapters long, at least, but the only way I'll keep producing them is if I get some feedback—preferably of a positive nature. So remember to review this if you liked it. The more you review, the sooner I'll produce continuations! Thanks so much, guys._

**CHAPTER ONE. **

_Killarney, Ireland – 1883_

Nothing drew the people of Killarney together quite like a funeral.

It was a great to-do in a fragment of the village. Along ancient, winding roads, a procession was made. Mourners in their blackest finest patrolled these walkways. Flowers were the grandest litter there ever was; lily petals were subtly crunched under mourners' worn boots. It'd reminded an onlooker of a tragic snowstorm, even in the midst of the thick, stale June air. At the head of the morbid parade was a pine box. Nothing special. In fact, it was easy to say that the poor soul whose body occupied the meager coffin had died a pauper indeed. And it was true: John Malone was as poor as they came.

What a strange sight it was, then, to see such a gathering to mourn the loss of one who'd died with nary a possession. John Malone's riches, instead, lay in the company he kept, the company he'd left behind to mourn his departure from this world.

"John Malone was a good man," an old farmer said in a low, reverent voice. "Won't be another the likes of him. Mark my words."

The words reached the ears of a small young woman a few paces ahead. Her eyes, green like the hills, had lost their glitter. Dark waves, unruly in the heat, pinned away from her pale countenance, shrouded by a scarf over her head, neck, and shoulders. She absorbed the words from the farmer gracefully, her hand thoughtfully splaying over her stomach. It rounded with time and looked veritably as though it'd drag the poor, fragile woman down. What a strange, paradoxical thing indeed: an expectant mother in a funeral march.

The farmer spoke again, his red brow furrowed under wisps of white hair. "I say, the world will never have another soul as good as he."

"Yes," the sullen mother-to-be whispered. "My poor, poor husband will be missed dreadfully."

* * *

"_And what do you want to call the little one, hmm?" A work-bronzed hand splayed over the rounded belly, smoothing the cotton tunic that draped over it. The hand belonged to a man with a smile that was slow to arrive but lingered when it did._

"_Well, I'll name it after you, John, if we're blessed with a son."_

"_And if we aren't, my love?" The smile stretched to the corners of his mouth. "If we've a little girl?"_

_She paused, eyes crinkling in thought. "Something beautiful."_

"_Aye." A puff of a chuckle escaped his lips, situating his wife onto his knee. "Any little angel that you've got in there is worthy of such a name."_

_The woman's emerald eyes flashed playfully, her fair countenance matted with shine from the everyday fatigue of carrying a child that was just about due._

"_Belle."_

"_Mmm?"_

"_We'll call her Belle." John smoothed his chin thoughtfully, settling his hand atop his wife's knee as it rested. "It means beauty."_

_She couldn't help but look amused. "Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Malone, that you wish to name our daughter something French?"_

_He drew a long, pensive sigh. "I know it isn't rightly Irish, my Nora…"_

"…_But it's quite lovely." She finished the statement for him, cupping a dainty hand about his slightly-grizzled chin._

"_Then Belle Elizabeth. We'll name her Belle Elizabeth—the Elizabeth after your dear late mother—and if it's a boy, we'll call him John, after his dear father." His shoulders squared with satisfaction, his chest heaving proudly. "But we'll have a daughter."_

_This amused Nora, who rolled to the other side of John's lap. "Oh, aye? We will? What makes you so certain we'll have a little girl, Mr. Malone?"_

_The secret lay dormant in his eyes as he encompassed the little mother with arms ensnaring her waist. "We will, that's all. You mark my words, my Nora. We'll be parents to a little girl, me and you. A little girl who's as small and shy as her mother, but with her father's curiosity."_

_A pause. Then, "John? Will it—will it still be all right? To raise the little one?" The Malones' farm had been dwindling these summer months. The barley crops had suffered under the heat, and it was likely the yield would be substantially less than in harvest seasons past. It worried Nora, who wanted to raise the child in a house as prosperous as she could manage. Now, the future was uncertain._

"_Nora—look at me?" Fingers drew the delicate chin to meet John's dark, yet gently spirited eyes. "Our little one will be safe. She'll be well cared for. If I don't see to that, you certainly will, by God."_

* * *

No one had expected the horrid accident that had befallen poor John Malone only a few days earlier. It was as quick as a lightning bolt and twice as fast: a runaway coach. One of the Britons on holiday had lost control of his elaborate carriage, and the wheel and horses had overtaken poor John Malone after a bleak, dark night home from the pub. The silver lining was that dear Mr. Malone didn't suffer in his departure from this world; the cloud was that he'd left behind not only a village and a farm, but also a young wife and unborn child. 

The mourners clustered in the hills just to the edge of Killarney. A perfect hole was dug in the emerald hills to accommodate John's casket. A priest presided over the rite, his garb whipping in the wind that provided some sort of relief to the summer swelter.

"God rest your soul, John Michael Malone."

The casket was lowered into its place, and no sooner had the dirt been sprinkled atop it than a sharp cry erupted from the mourners. Nora doubled over as the cry emitted again. This time, it was plain that she owned that sharp, pained cry. It wasn't a widow's wail. It was a mother's.

"Dear God. It's coming. The baby's coming."

Just as soon, the funeral reached its end, all last rites performed over the poor pauper's grave. The older women of the town—those who'd grown broad with child rearing and experience—surrounded young Nora, all in a fuss to get her to a suitable, sterile bed. She was engulfed by the women and quickly taken back toward town. The old farmer thumbed the brim of his cap, whistled lowly, and declared, "Aye, that's as it would seem: Death to make room for life."

Nora was dazed at the turn of events, more so at the reaction of the women about her than of the arrival of her very own child, when she was finally settled into her own bed. She even allowed the saddest and weariest of smiles to cross her features. _Bless those poor biddies, but they look like a flock of fussy blackbirds!_

The blackbirds didn't get any less fussy as the hours went on. Nora hadn't the faintest idea that such an event as the arrival of a baby was enough to be the center of attention. She'd likely have been just content settling into bed and letting one midwife take over. Not, certainly enough, twenty midwives! They flocked and squawked to each other mostly, occasionally propping a pillow beneath Nora's head of curls and giving her a militaristic command to "push, Nora Malone, for Jesus' sake!" It was so much of a whirlwind that Nora didn't even remember that her dear John wasn't waiting outside. _Oh John. You'd have had none of this if you were still with us._

And so it went on into the night. Nora grew fatigued, and so did many of the self-appointed midwives, that they took turns. Some would curl up in gnarled positions on a chair to catch a nap before resuming the task at hand—the "God-given duty," as they insisted it was—and poor Nora was flush with fatigue and pain and frustration that she couldn't be left alone. _Little one, come soon and quickly, for Heaven's sake!_

The night didn't seem to end until a last swelling of orders from the blackbirds gave way into a crescendo, at the top of which was a shrill cry unmatched by any of the ladies present, including Nora herself. The baby. Nora struggled to try and see, but the little one was shrouded in fussy ladies and bathed in warm water and, quite honestly, still crying at the top of its very lungs.

"The baby," Nora pleaded in a feeble voice that didn't carry far. Her arms were outstretched. "Let me see—"

"—And what a healthy little sprite it is at that!" boomed one of the more domineering blackbirds, hoisting a pink little bundle into the air gleefully, only to give it a landing place in the mother's arms. "A wee little thing, but bright and cheery. Looks just like her mother, she does."

Everything changed in that one instant. All the pain and fuss of waiting and waiting had been erased altogether when Nora finally held the child in her arms. _Looks just like her mother._ A girl. A little girl. John was right. The room faded away, save for mother and daughter. The blackbirds had collected themselves and the mess and began to clear out. Their job had been done, but dear Nora's had only begun.

"Oh, Belle. My little Belle Elizabeth Malone."

* * *

_To be continued, very soon._


	2. Famine and Fairy Catching

_Thanks to everyone that's written reviews so far. They help more than you're aware._

**CHAPTER TWO.**  
_Killarney, Ireland – 1889_

The passing of seasons gave way to new life for Nora and her newborn daughter. And still, Killarney was as ancient as ever: eternally emerald hills; the placid, low rivers; the delicate little buildings that settled nearby, as though they'd grown straight from the hills themselves. A small brook that cut just through the farmland helped the land to grow fallow in seasons past. Now, the blessed thing had begun to wither, the green land increasingly growing unsuitable for the barley crops that were the Malones' livelihood.

Nora was as fragile as ever, her once-blooming figure suffering under the famine that had settled upon them. In the lamplight of the evening, she looked like a veritable ghost: hollow, graceful, and still with that bit of sorrow.

"It won't do for you to be here much longer, Nora."

The voice belonged to a woman who, by comparison, was plumper and seemingly wiser than Nora. Her cheeks were red, perpetually flushed for no good reason save the trek back and forth between her farmhouse and Nora's. Her faded auburn hair was tucked up haphazardly, the runaway wisps curling around her cheeks as she took a sip of tea.

Her statement was shocking to Nora's ears. _Leave home? Nonsense!_ "You surely can't mean that, Auntie." Her eyes went wide with incredulity.

Auntie's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Nora, my dear. Surely you've known me long enough to know I don't go on about things I don't _mean_." She settled back with a little grin, shrugging her shoulders casually. "Would you have a look at the land? Everything's all dried up. You can't possibly hope to sustain anyone, much less yourself and your precious daughter."

"I know that."

Her faded green eyes flickered to the farmland around twilight, and softened when they settled upon a girl in a simple, beige dress. Her little grasshopper legs sprung up to capture fireflies as their presence began to dazzle the meager countryside. Even through the silencing windowpane, Nora sighed blissfully, knowing Belle was giggling about something quite fiercely. _Mary and Joseph, how she's grown._

"She needs more security." Auntie's voice brought Nora back into the room. There was a pause as the older woman licked her lips in thought before speaking again: "There's an acquaintance of mine, all the way in New York City."

She was only half paying attention. "Mmm?"

"Sally O'Shea," Auntie continued, with increased skepticism that Nora was paying attention at all. "She operates a tenant's house, right in the heart of the city."

"Uh huh."

"She'll get you work there, Nora."

The pause deepened, but Nora had finally begun to understand the importance of the conversation. "Work?" A deep breath. "In New York?" _New York, as in America?_ What a foreign idea. America was real, true enough; but it was just so _far_. She might as well be searching for life in China!

"Aye." Auntie studied Nora with a critical eye, one of near concern. "Sally's not one to disappoint. I'll even write a letter to her if you like, see if I can get her to spare a room in the tenant's house."

She was just about to comply, but the startling nature of it all jolted her into silence. Pack up _everything_ and move to America? The idea was so fantastical, so preposterous. It'd be even less appealing if the barley crops had yielded proper amounts, but the sad reality was that they hadn't. Her poor daughter was looking small and underfed—happy, perhaps, but not healthy.

"Think of your daughter," Auntie pressed gently, a weathered hand overtaking Nora's forearm. "Sally will see to it that little Belle won't ever go hungry."

As if on cue, the modest little door to the cottage opened and in tiptoed a small sprite of a girl. Six years old, with dark hair tousled this way and that from the run along the garden, Belle was flushed with delight. Something was held behind her back, accompanied with a grin of bashful satisfaction.

"Belle, my lamb." Though still lined with worry, Nora's face eased upon seeing her happy little daughter. Arms opened to receive her. "And what's that you've got behind your back, mm?"

Silently, she tiptoed close to Nora, the grin widening when she presented her surprise: a glass jar. Inside, two delicate, green-yellow dots of light floated gently up and down, back and forth, slow as you please.

"Fairies, Ma." She set the jar down softly, watching the lights with fascination. Her dark eyes were wide with pleasant discovery. "They play on the hillside all the time, but tonight they let me catch them!"

The two women exchanged a knowing, bemused glance, for anyone could see that the creatures inside were nothing but common fireflies. Naturally, neither of them would break this to Belle, who looked so very pleased that she'd been able to capture not only one fairy but _two!_ Not an easy task for a six year-old. After all, only the gentlest, mildest of souls were ever lucky to usher fairies close to them; so said the legends of the land.

Such innocence delighted Nora, who rewarded her daughter with a kiss to the tousled curls and a boost onto her knee. "They're lovely," she affirmed, maternally taming the unruly locks of hair that surrounded her daughter's fair face. It made her look like a fairy herself. "Did they have any secrets to tell you?"

This was an important question to Belle, who occupied herself with the land as her garden and the creatures within as her playmates. The extension of Killarney didn't boast many children her age; most were lads that were several years older and would play too rough for the poor child. Instead, she delighted in games such as this: gathering fairies into her jar. Such a feast, it was, for the imagination. But oh, how lonely it must have been.

"They told me about their home," she said in a sweet but very earnest voice to both women present. "It's pretty, Ma. There's a great big waterfall and a great big tree, and the fairies come and go all day!" Her eyes twinkled with her own fairy magic. "It's far, far away they said. All the way across water and sky. But it's where they make dreams and send them to boys and girls when they go to sleep." Her tiny hand stretched about the jar, her eyes darting about to observe the poor, trapped creatures."…Is it wrong to keep them, Ma?"

Nora, as most mothers do, was the chief storyteller to her young daughter, and therefore taught Belle all she needed to know about the fairies that blessed the land with magic. "Fairies like company, and," she said, giving her daughter's sides a tickle, "they're _very_ fond of you. But these are baby fairies. They'll miss their families if you keep them too long. It's best to let them go."

It disheartened her a bit, and her young eyes sought a second opinion. "Auntie, must I?"

"Aye. What if someone took you from your Ma? You'd want to get back quick as you could, wouldn't you?"

She nodded.

"Then you ought to set them free, little one. After all," she said kindly, tapping gently upon the jar, "everyone knows that when you catch fairies and set them free, they'll keep you safe all the days of your life. Oh, you won't see 'em all the time, but they'll be there, sure enough! A tinkling in your ear, perhaps. A tickle on your nose. They're wee things, Belle, but they'll look after ye."

It was enough of a calm to Belle, who smiled more wistfully, taking up the jar with a little sigh. "Very well." She climbed upon a little stool to latch open the window, carefully opening the jar. "There, fairies. You can go home now." A moment passed, and the green-yellow lights rose from the jar and into the evening air, dancing with one another.

In the little adventure of fairy-catching, Belle had stayed up quite past her bedtime, and was promptly ushered into the next room by her mother, who was quick to settle her, safe and warm, in her own bed. "Sleep now, little lamb."

Belle wasn't about to let her go that easily. "Ma?" she asked expectantly, large, glittery eyes studying her mother's. "You forgot to sing the song!"

It didn't slip Nora's mind, but she did enjoy testing her daughter's memory. Sharp as a tack, she was. "Oh? Did I?" She absently smoothed her daughter's hair over the pillowcase. "It seems that I've forgotten how it goes. Perhaps if you sing it to me a little, I might remember?"

Belle, whose face shone at the prospect of performing a little, easily undertook the task. "It goes like so." She took a deep, dramatic breath and sang in a breathy little voice: "Slumber away, sleepy eyes come what may…"

Mother joined Daughter in song: "Go to sleep now, my little lovely." When Belle was satisfied that her mother didn't forget the song, she let her continue: "And may your sweet head, as you dream in your bed, go to sleep now my little lovely…"

Nora's voice traveled to her daughter's ears as it worked its nightly magic, watching Belle's darling eyes droop closed in peaceful rest. She breathed a scarcely audible prayer, as she did every night, the only memorable part being the conclusive, "in Jesus' name, Amen." A kiss to her daughter's brow, she rose from the bed and smiled lovingly. "Perhaps the fairies will find you tomorrow." With that warm, glowing promise, and the song in her heart, Belle fell asleep quickly, her dreams taking her to the very land of fairies she'd heard so much about. _All the way across water and sky…_

The interlude with her daughter helped Nora's shaky decision-making to solidify. "You truly think she will be happier in America, Auntie?"

The older woman nodded sagely. "Aye. There'll be abundance for her, children her age to play with, and perhaps even a nice school to attend. Sally tells me of schools in America that are open to all!" She produced a pair of knitting needles and began to work as she spoke. "I say it often, Nora, but my nephew loved you both."

"I know, Auntie."

"And he may not have lived to see his little girl, but I'm sure he wanted the very best for her and her mother, too." She sighed, smiling imploringly. "The best will be there, Nora. In America."

The advice was well received, but silence enveloped the women: Auntie knitting and purling, and Nora tidying up the modest room. _America._ She scarcely knew a thing about the place. So many Irish, she knew, had emigrated and went to America. The hearsay she'd often gathered from their friends and families was good, she supposed: plentiful work, countless places to stay, a great big country full of great, big possibilities. There wasn't much of a possibility of prosperity here, not anymore. The barley would never recover, Nora feared. And what about Belle? She needed food, and company. Children her own age to play with. Believing in fairies was all well and good now, but what about when she'd grow up? Would she marry? More and more families were going to America that Belle might never have a chance at a life at all, not if they were to stay. No. They couldn't stay here. Not if there was to be any promise left in life.

"Then write a letter to your friend Sally O'Shea, Auntie." Nora's face was set with resolution. "My daughter and I will go to America."


	3. Across Sky and Sea

_Here we go with the next installment. We know how much I love reviews, but I'm learning the "quality versus quantity" lesson awfully hard. Ah well. Here's hoping._

**CHAPTER THREE.**

_Early autumn - 1890_

"Ma! Ma, please hurry!"

Belle had aged a year. It didn't change her appearance all that much, save for stretching her height an inch or more. Presently, the seven-year-old sprite was ardently rousing her mother from bed. If there was ever a good reason to wake someone up before dawn painted the sky, now was the time for it. With no more a signal to go off on than a cracking open of her mother's sleepy eyes, she cried out in delight and flew to the window.

"_Land_, Ma! It's really there and everything!"

This elicited a sleepy sigh from Nora, who near-instantly invoked the spirit within to raise herself to alertness, easing herself from the bed to glimpse at the cause of Belle's enthusiasm. "All right, lamb, all right. Give us a minute to—"

But even Nora was rendered speechless when her eyes were met, not with a mild, gentle batch of rolling hills, but with buildings. Docks, dinghies, and so many buildings reminded Nora's eyes of the barnacles that'd collect on her father's old rowboat off the coast. _Just one after the other… are they piled on top of each other, too? Look at how tall they're built!_

Only her daughter's twinkling gaze out the porthole matched Nora's enthusiasm. Though she was a girl of seven years (and therefore that much closer to being a young lady) Belle didn't know much about this, her new destination. When Ma spoke of a place called America, it sounded so magical. The very name danced off her tongue, it seemed, and Ma described it as a place far and away: a great big land across the sea and the sky. In the early morning, darkness still shrouded New York's harbor from the inevitable grime and decay, giving Belle the impression of a magical place indeed. _Is this the faraway fairyland?_

Belle was able to bounce about and ready herself to meet America freely and easily, but Nora didn't possess that freedom. Instead, she clutched her modest carpetbag and ensured she knew Sally O'Shea's address by heart, so they'd be there as quick as possible. For all the exultation that Belle felt for this, her new home, Nora was afraid enough for the both of them. Her mind wandered with worry. Her hands unconsciously, fretfully trembled as she gathered the remainder of their belongings into the bag.

* * *

Clutching fervently to her mother's hand, Belle skipped through the narrow third-class corridors of the steamship's hull: down a hall, round a corner, through a stairwell, then more halls and corners and stairs. What if they never got off the ship? Would America still be there? Oh, she hoped it wouldn't be too late!

Belle clasped a perfectly tiny satchel of her very own, containing treasures of the utmost importance to a little girl: a smooth stone from the hills of her Killarney farm, a handkerchief that was once Ma's, and a small blank book and pencil. (Auntie assured Belle she'd learn her letters soon to write things in her little journal—until then, she said, the pencil and book was for drawing pictures of pretty, American things she'd see.) At the very bottom was a special gift from Auntie—a small, painted, wooden figure of a beautiful winged sprite.

"This wee gift is your very own fairy," Auntie had instructed Belle just before she'd left for America. "You keep her close by—in your satchel, or in your pocket, and she'll protect you and keep you company always."

The thought still warmed Belle's heart even now, and as she walked with Ma through the ship, she took out her little fairy to study it. What a beautiful creature it was! Though carved from wood, her face was painted a soft pinkish white, her lips fashioned into a graceful smile as her unruly hair framed the delicate face. Her tiny frame was draped in a pale green gown, and two white wings primly poised at her back, perked at attention or in mid-flight. In miniature, elegant hands, she grasped a little red rosebud, her face upturned as if proffering it to Belle for inspection.

Belle, who had never had much in the way of dolls or toys before, cherished the little fairy dearly and whispered to it: "You're more lovely than any fairy I've seen yet! I'll name you Rosebud." With this impromptu christening, she safely tucked the figurine into her satchel and closed it up nice and tightly.

With the closing of the satchel came the arrival of sunlight, for mother and daughter had finally arrived at the gangplank. Belle's hand was grasped, more tightly than ever, in Ma's as they scurried down and took a good, first look at the land their feet had greeted just now. _America!_

The next few moments were a blur to Belle, for her only tasks at hand were ensuring her hand stayed with Ma's, and making sure that her own collection of items stayed safe and secure. Her mother was asking questions here and there, and guiding Belle through the thickest crowd of people she'd ever met. People were wheeling carts, making conversation in low, grown-up voices, many of which spoke languages the likes of which Belle had never heard before. Over the crowd, sounds of children making declarations and waving large papers over their heads could be heard quite easily to Belle's ears, which were already trained to search for a playmate, perhaps, while in America.

"North, lamb." Nora gave her daughter's hand an encouraging squeeze. "We walk north on this street until we get to Kingsbridge."

This was all well and good, but both parties knew that even if Belle saw a sign for Kingsbridge, she wouldn't know how to read it. The streets were wide and noisy, and all the while Belle kept wondering where all of these people _lived_ if they were so busily buzzing to and fro like a big swarm of bees.

The answer to this question was revealed after half a day's walk. Mother and daughter meandered through crowds of people who (in Belle's perspective at least) seemed like the same faces and the same shouts and prattle recycled over and over again. What if America was nothing but a scary maze to be caught in? Through the leather soles of her shoes, she'd started to feel every stone from each step, internally cautioning herself to refrain from complaining about such discomforts to Ma, who looked ill at ease in her own right.

"You're being very good," Ma commended with a squeeze to her hand. "Only three blocks more and we'll have arrived at Sally O'Shea's."

The thickness that Belle had discovered New York City to be had thinned out considerably when they arrived in Kingsbridge. The buildings were a little less close together, and were shorter than some of the daunting, towering edifices that reached skyward in the thick of Manhattan. Between the buildings, clotheslines drooped with arrangements of all sorts of fabrics. A milk cart ventured through the cobblestone streets, clinking and clanking along the way. A fire escape provided a place for two lovers to sneak a kiss through a window. Just at a corner was a modest brick building of three stories. At the front stoop of this house, a woman with pale strawberry blonde, wispy hair arduously swept away the accumulated dust and dirt from the steps into the street below.

"This is it." Ma elicited a feverish sigh of relief, hoisting up her skirts with newfound energy to start toward the stoop. "Belle, mind your manners."

In accordance with the minding of manners, Belle nodded silently and trudged with her mother toward the house, where the pair caught a glimpse of the woman a bit closer up. She was awfully bony and small, Belle thought—not quite as plump and inviting as Auntie. Her hands looked raw, as though she'd been holding that broom and sweeping that stoop for years on end. Her eyes looked like Ma's—a pretty shade of green, but such eyes looked as if they'd lost their twinkle. She paused in her sweeping to peek at the approaching pair, venting her exhaustion in a low whistle. "Yes. What is it you want?"

Both Malone girls shrank back a little at the voice, which carried a surprising bark given the petite size of the woman. "Sally O'Shea?" Ma presumed. With a sniff of confirmation from the other woman, she continued: "I'm Nora Malone. My aunt wrote a letter to you inquiring about a place to stay…?"

The presumed Sally O'Shea squinted in recollection, then set the broom against the house. "Right." Her faded green eyes narrowed at Belle. "I don't recall readin' about a child in the letter."

"My daughter, Belle." Ma drew Belle away from the refuge of her skirts and situated her in front of her, hands lovingly on her shoulders. "She's quiet as a mouse and will be even less trouble, I promise you."

This didn't really faze Sally O'Shea, who shrugged and harrumphed indignantly. "Well, we don't have any children in the house. She'll have to make do with that."

The statement made Belle's heart sink a little. _No children?_ Part of the dreams she had of America were of finding other children her age to play with. Life in Killarney, while it contained lots of fairy stories and green hills to play about, was a lonely playground for Belle. Ma nudged her forward when a moment of awkward silence passed over them, encouraging her to follow bony Sally O'Shea into the house. It was a brief glimpse at the ground floor: plain, white walls and dark wooden molding about the doors and stairs. Belle was ushered up these stairs promptly, then up another set of stairs, and then even _another_ little set of stairs until there wasn't any more room to climb up. A small door was at the end of this small staircase. From her apron pocket, Sally O'Shea produced a single key. "This will be your room." With nothing more, she lifted her skirts and headed back the way she came. Mother and daughter remained, exchanging a wary glance, as if to say _well, here we are._

Belle stayed close to Ma as she tried the key in the door, which creaked open after a moment of twisting and turning on her part, and both of them lingered in the doorway to observe the room all together. The first thing to notice was the ceiling, which sloped dangerously low on either side of the room. A table, two chairs, and a wood stove occupied one side of the room, the other containing a hat stand, chest of drawers, and a bed that was large enough for the both of them.

"Well," Ma whispered shakily, her voice still forcibly high with optimism. She stepped into the room, bringing Belle with her, and closed the door tightly. "It's not so bad, is it my lamb?" An urgent knock resounded on the door. Ma's brow furrowed in bewilderment and she crossed the room to open the door. What sort of visitors would they be expecting?

It was only Sally O'Shea, who stood with hands on her hips as though she were quite angry that she had to climb the stairs all over again. "I just reminded myself that, in accordance with the letter yer auntie writ me, I got ye a job." She licked her lips, pausing ceremoniously. "The seamstress' shop two blocks over on this street. I told the proprietor you'd start tomorrow mornin'." She paused to cough lightly. "Washroom's downstairs. I need a dollar a week from you on Fridays." With a nod of completion, she hobbled back down the stairs without waiting for a reply.

Sally O'Shea's grumpy, gruff demeanor had already settled into both the Malones, and Ma simply let out a soft laugh as she shut the door once more. "It'll do, my Belle, don't you think? And come tomorrow I'll have a real job." She knelt at the bedside, where Belle had already begun to test out the softness of the bed. She'd later reach the conclusion that the mattress felt like it was stuffed with straw.

"What shall I do while you work?" Belle's dark eyes began to droop with fatigue.

Ma smoothed Belle's brow maternally, admiring the dark curls as they settled on the pillow. "You're free to do as you please, my lamb. I don't want you straying far from this very street, especially not after sunset. Do you understand?"

She nodded in compliance. "Yes, Ma." The very thought of straying anywhere in New York City by herself rather frightened Belle. Perhaps she'd just stay in the room and play with her new fairy instead. "Will we live here for a very long time, Ma?" The inflection of her question alerted Ma that Belle wasn't quite happy in the present surroundings.

"Perhaps not, my little lamb." She caressed her forehead again, letting her finger coax the bridge of her nose—a gesture that often lulled Belle to sleep. "Perhaps I'll save my money and we'll live in a real house. Until then, we'll make this our little palace, won't we?"

"Mmhm."

"With flowers, I think. And pretty cloth for the window?"

"Mmhm."

"You've had a busy day, haven't you lamb?"

"Mmhm."

"I think bedtime will be early for you then. Dream of America, little Belle." Ma smiled wearily, but kissed her daughter's ear, whispering their favorite bedtime song: "Slumber away sleepy eyes, come what may, go to sleep now, my little lovely…"


	4. A Day At The Park

_Thanks much for the support so far. You're the ones that are keeping me going, so please don't hesitate to prod and/or encourage. And, to reward you for your loyalty, we'll meet a few actual newsies this chapter. Aren't you just bursting with delight?_

**CHAPTER FOUR.**

_Early spring – 1891_

For the first time since her arrival in New York almost six months ago, Belle enjoyed a pretty day outside. The grim chill and deathlike hold that winter held over a place like the Bronx was nigh unbearable for her and Ma. They'd made it through, sure enough, but it was on scraps of food and scraps of clothing. Ma was only making just enough to see to a few nice meals a week. Neither had gone hungry really, and, as Ma had often cautioned Belle during nighttime prayers, "Be sure and thank the Lord every day for that which He's been so gracious to bestow upon us."

And Belle _was_ grateful, make no mistake. Surely a God that was probably busy healing the sick and taking care of Heaven was certainly good enough to give them a nice plate of food once in a while and a scoop of coal or wood for the stove. It was a thankful, but lonesome existence for the little girl, for she'd never ventured outside much to play (perhaps fearful of the not-so-kind faces on many New Yorkers), and when she did, it was often alone, just as it was in Killarney.

The closest little patch of green was only around the block. It was a modest little park with a tree here and there, and a park bench that looked particularly welcoming when Belle wanted to draw in her very own journal—for that's all she _could_ do. There wasn't a free school anywhere near Kingsbridge, and the schools nearby were all very stuffy, Ma said, and actually made children pay to learn. _Oh, but how glorious it'd be to know reading and writing!_ But Belle would be patient to learn. She'd have to be.

Today, the sky was so very deeply blue and cloudless that it gave Belle a new energy and zest for the outdoors. Her Irish leather shoes scuffed the sidewalk as she attempted a skip or two towards the park. Through the bars, she spied the glorious oasis of trees and grass. It wasn't even big enough to cover the size of the city block, but it was all she needed to feel a little more at home. The grass even felt springy when she traveled over it, heading towards her very own bench.

All at once, she stopped her skip and shuffled a little more modestly, for she wasn't alone at the park today. Across the patch of green and in the corner, there were three other children—three young boys, perhaps Belle's age—leaning against the fencepost. Despite being just a little bigger than Belle, they seemed so much _older_. One of them even had a cigarette lazily hanging from one corner of his mouth. They stopped their game momentarily when Belle meekly entered the place, and even as she took her usual place on the park bench, she could hear them whisper to one another:

"Quit yer starin'. That ain't polite."

"Aw, cut it out! I wasn't starin' at nobody."

"How come she's always there? I seen her at least three other times before."

"How do I know? She don't ever say nothin' or play with us, though. You think she's deaf or somethin'?"

"Shh! She's gonna know we're talkin' about her."

"How's she gonna know if she's deaf?"

"Well, supposin' she ain't?"

"Let's ask her to play with us."

"_You_ ask her. I'm scared of girls."

"Aw come on! There ain't nothin' to be scared of."

"You think you're so brave? _You_ go talk to the kid."

All the while, Belle kept her face buried in her drawing journal, pencil scribbling fervently. It was a shapeless doodle that more and more began to resemble a flower, but the point was that she absolutely _couldn't_ look up at these boys. What if they made fun of her? What if they were the rough sort that Ma cautioned her to stay away from? Well, even if they weren't rough, they'd laugh at her, of course. Boys liked laughing at girls.

_Hop, hop, hop._ The sudden closeness of the sound made Belle jerk her head up attentively, despite all commands to herself to do otherwise.

"Aha! I _knew_ you wasn't deaf!"

The voice belonged to a boy that was rather small and thin, like Belle. He had a pair of ears that stuck out noticeably from under his cap—rather like a clown's silly ears—but of course Belle scolded herself for already making fun of a boy that she didn't even know. She further felt badly for being so judgmental when she noticed the funny-looking boy propping his weight against a shabbily constructed crutch.

When Belle didn't audibly respond right away, he took it upon himself to continue. "Maybe you can't talk then? I know a fella down near Bottle Alley that can't talk…"

"…I can talk." Well, she'd proven her point, but not by much, for her voice was still very soft indeed.

This was sufficient for the boy on the crutch, who resolved to grin encouragingly. "Wanna play? Me an' the fellas were gonna play ball." He paused, checking over his shoulder to make sure that his friends were, in fact, still there. "What do they call you, kid?"

"My mother calls me Belle." She bit her lip tentatively, hoping that was the right sort of response.

"Belle." It sounded funny to the boy, but he mulled it over and nodded agreeably. "Well, my mother called _me_ Isaiah, but ev'ryone else's started to call me—"

"_Crutchy!_" The interrupting voice came from the boy that'd had a cigarette in his mouth. "The kid gonna play or what?"

"Crutchy?" Belle tried the word out with a sad expression. "I don't think that's a very nice thing to call you."

"Oh, that?" Evidently, Crutchy wasn't one to let anything sadden him, not even the feeble leg that gave him his nickname. "Aw, that's okay. They jus' call me that 'cause of my crutch. I've had it since I was four. Wagon ran over my leg!" He declared it as though it were a delight to experience. "But I don't mind it. I get along okay an' all." He started to hobble back towards the other two boys on the fence, motioning Belle to follow with him. "C'mon!"

She set her journal down with a thoughtful sigh, knowing there wasn't much risk in playing a game with these kids at the park. Crutchy, at least, was a nice and agreeable sort. But now, as she crossed to the boys' side of the fence, she remembered that she needed to make friends with the remaining two boys as well.

"New kid?" The cigarette boy ardently took Belle's hand and shook it roughly.

"Well, not _really_ new," Belle defended in earnest. "I've been here for near six months…"

He narrowed his eyes contemplatively. "Irish," he asserted. "My pop was Irish." He nodded, as though this was a sufficient initiation for the kid. "I'm Anthony Higgins." He nodded indicatively at the remaining boy in the corner, who had an unruly, thick, curly hair. "An' we call him Mush Meyers, on account of he's a big softie. He's a-scared of girls," he muttered confidentially to Belle.

"I am not!" Mush retorted, taking to wringing his removed hat in his hands.

This elicited a smile from Belle's wry lips, but not much else for she, too, could identify with being a bit shy around strangers. This allowed Anthony to furrow his brow in bewilderment, removing his cigarette from his mouth to get a few words in:

"Don't say much, do ya?" He smirked. "Oughta call you Mouse. Quiet as one, that's for sure." He returned the cigarette to the corner of his mouth but continued to speak: "So. Ever heard of baseball?"

* * *

Two hours later, Belle still hadn't heard of baseball. It was deemed "not girly" by the trio of boys, and they simply resorted to a game of make-believe instead: a scenario in which all three of them had taken long sticks to use as horses, galloping about and shouting with great, showy appeal. Cowboys, they called themselves. They settled Belle into the part of a princess—an Indian princess—and though she didn't know how Indian princesses acted, such a lack of knowledge was irrelevant to the game, for her main duty was to feign being imprisoned by the tree by Mush, who served a reluctant, more villainous cowboy.

Just as sunset was about to paint the park a new, nighttime sort of color, Belle wrestled herself from her makeshift handcuffs near the tree.

"Whoa, hold up a minute!" Anthony broke character and dismounted his "horse." "We haven't even gotten to the part where we save the princess!"

"But I have to go," she insisted with quite a degree of hesitation. "I promised Ma I'd be inside before it's nighttime." She was considerably surprised to see the look of disappointment on the boys' faces. "But," she continued with increasing hope, "I'll be back tommorow…?"

This was good enough for Crutchy, who gave a nod of permission. "Okay!"

"We'll see ya tomorrow then, Irish," Anthony added, laboriously lighting another cigarette, which started to look less and less strange to Belle.

And with that, Belle turned and began her exeunt. She was so overcome, so delighted that she had made friends—real, honest _friends!_—that she didn't give the boys a proper goodbye. But, she supposed, that'd be quite all right. She'd see them tomorrow. _Tomorrow!_ It was certainly enough to put a spring in her step as she arrived up the flights of stairs to her and Ma's room. Ma was still putting her hat on the stand and laughed at the irresistible hug that Belle greeted her with.

"Saints preserve us!" she declared with tired happiness, smoothing Belle's hair into submission, for it had gotten quite unruly in play this afternoon. "And what makes my little lamb so cheerful?"

Belle held her chin up with all the grace she employed when playing the Indian princess. "I made friends at the park, Ma."

"Did you, now?" Her smile was slow to arrive but lingered when it finally made its appearance. She punctuated the statement with a kiss atop Belle's head, guiding her to the table to solicit her help in preparing supper.

And then, of course, Belle simply _had_ to tell Ma all about her day: meeting the three boys and being an Indian princess and being just so very _proud_ that she was able to make friends so easily. It was so much to celebrate that she didn't even notice that supper was nothing more than bread and a bit of cheese. She scarcely noticed that her mother seemed smaller lately, more fragile, sadder. Belle's inexperience was a haze over her, and she couldn't decipher the graceful sadness that all too often dominated Ma's features now. She looked, to the best of her understanding, as though she had made peace with something.

What that peace was, Belle was unsure. But something within her tugged at her insides, and it wasn't a good tug.


	5. Winter's Emptiness

_Again, thanks to my little collection of fans. You're bringing out the writer in me yet. This chapter's a big one, but I promise you'll be happy with the end result… or your money back. PLEASE review this for me. The encouragement helps more than you know.  
_

**CHAPTER FIVE.**  
_Winter – 1893_

In many ways, it was as if nothing had changed for Belle over the next year and a half. Sure, she'd grown taller, but the room still felt as new and uncomfortable as it had the day she and Ma arrived in New York. It didn't grow with her—constricting, suffocating, but she'd be grateful. She must be.

As for her newfound friends, those bewilderingly amusing boys… well, she'd seen them every once in a while after her first encounter with them. They slowly filtered out of the Bronx, and Belle remembered them mentioning work further inside Manhattan. Something about selling newspapers. For the most part, however, they left her realm in Kingsbridge for good, and with their presence went all feelings of childhood. Afternoons were more lazy than ever; Belle still had yet to read basic words and letters. Every day was the same.

When her tenth birthday came around, it was dismissed with a sad, casual shrug all around. Presents and cake couldn't be afforded—but even in Ireland, they never were. At that time, Ma looked so small and frail that Belle dared not even bother her for a thing. Sometimes meals would be skipped, but it was a cost gladly paid. _Anything to keep Ma well and happy._

And so the sparse trees shed the last of their leaves. The chill remained in the air. It thickened, just as it seemed to do every year. New York didn't retain the fresh, crisp nature of a real winter. Instead, what occurred was a sad, brisk remnant: angry, whipping winds and perpetually cloudy skies.

Today the cloudy skies gave birth to flakes—the largest, whitest, and fluffiest that Belle had seen yet. It happened late in the afternoon, just as Belle pressed her nose to peek out the window in hopes to see Ma coming down the path. Immediately, temporarily distracted by the beauty of a snowfall, she looked skyward. "Snow," she breathed happily, her palm splaying over the windowsill. Her hands were becoming less childish: more slender and long, just like a grown-up lady's. "Oh, _beautiful_ snow!"

The reverie was startled away when the door jarred open with a shaky urgency. A voice on the other side of the door sounded so hollow, so familiar.

"Belle, my lamb… help me and open this door?"

Ma. Obediently, Belle scrambled for the door, silently hoping that Ma had brought with her some fresh groceries for their modest pantry, but alas, when she pressed the door open, Ma's arms looked empty: empty and thin, like the branches of the now-bare trees. Though she carried nothing, her arms seemed held open, as though petitioning Belle for something.

"Ma?" Belle's voice was as shaky as her mother's appearance. _Saints above. She looks more pale than ever before._

She knew Belle's expression of worry and dismissed it, frail as she was. "Don't you dare worry. I'm only in need of a rest before supper."

* * *

What turned into a rest before supper lengthened, and now Ma was unable to rise from her bed. She was small and fragile before. Now, she was pale. Perspiration glistened on her forehead and neck. Her breathing was slow, rhythmic. Belle was no nursemaid, but she did everything Ma would do for her when _she_ was ill: damp rags to her forehead, readying a cup of cool water, stroking the clammy hand that lay morbidly limp in hers.

"Should I find a doctor, Ma?" Belle's whisper broke a hushed scene.

"No, lamb." She uttered the reply quickly, for there was no room to question it. "No, my Belle. We mustn't worry about a doctor."

Belle bit her lower lip, brow furrowed in bewilderment. "But he can make you all better, Ma. I can get him really fast—"

"No." Ma's voice rang almost pleadingly. "No… this needs to be done myself."

Silence. Then, "Will you be all right, Ma?"

"I don't think I will, my love." There was peace in the room, and Belle couldn't help but to embrace it just as her mother had. "Belle." Ma's voice was so very small now. "Belle, my lamb… Promise me you won't be afraid?"

"I won't, Ma." An easy promise to make, but scarcely one to keep. What if she became afraid when Ma wasn't there? She had no one else to look after her.

"Don't be afraid." It warranted a good repeat or two. "Not ever. Not when you're cold or sad." Her eyes listlessly rolled to the bedside, taking another deep breath. "Your little fairy. The one Auntie gave you. Do hold onto it tight? For me?"

Instantly, Belle seized up the wooden fairy figurine—who had sustained some wear and tear over the past four years—and clutched it close to her, whispering softly, as if praying to the saints and the fairies and all who would listen. _Don't leave me alone._

"There's a girl." With a hand outstretched for life itself, Ma clasped her hand about Belle's forearm, smoothing tenderly. "Don't you ever be afraid, my little Belle. Not when I love you so very much. I want you to find a wonderful place to be. Where someone will look after you."

It was a question unanswered for Belle. "But where, Ma? Where would I go?"

Such an answer would never be revealed, for as soon as the words left Belle's lips, a strange event occurred. It was as though in one fell swoop, all of the warmth that Ma's hand retained had been sucked dry by an unseen force. The hand grasping Belle's arm lost its tension. Belle's eyes traveled up the arm and to the neck, where she saw Ma's sweet head tilted to one side, her lips parted slightly, as though receiving a kiss. The chest that normally heaved in a wry laugh or a sigh had stilled, and it was all Belle could do to not panic.

Ma was gone.

Tears dampened the old quilt, and Belle knelt there, weeping without abandon. It could have easily been ages between her passing and the moment when Belle's cries (which she wasn't even aware of) had alerted Sally O'Shea. She burst through the room, hair wild and fiery red with stress. She knew what had happened, and gasped in shock, crossing herself stoically, whispering a hurried Lord's Prayer before promptly hurrying into the room, surveying Ma's limp form. With a gasp, she whirled around to face Belle, looking almost witchlike in the process.

"Gather your things," she commanded. "You must get out of here this instant."

What a heart-wrenching thing for a girl to be told at this point. "Why?" was all she could ask.

Sally O'Shea kept up her witch image and whirled about the room, tossing Belle's things into her satchel. "Typhoid fever!" she declared. "We'll all get it." A pause as she crossed herself. Seizing Belle by the shoulders, she almost shoved her out of the room and down the stairs. "Take your things. You mustn't come back, do you hear?"

The door was slammed shut behind them as Sally O'Shea howled for two of the more able-bodied men that lived in the tenant building to assist her in "disposing of the wretched body afore it kills us all." And all Belle could do was watch, wide eyed. Ma wasn't dangerous. If she were really sick, wouldn't Belle have gotten sick, too? As the two burly men barreled toward the door, Belle was casually pushed aside. Sally O'Shea's eyes found her and flashed angrily.

"Out! _Out_, I tell ye!"

It frightened Belle enough to quite literally run down the stairs and hurry away. _Far away._ She had to walk and move, else the gravity of the situation would hurt her too much. It was all a nightmare. Perhaps that's what it was, a nightmare that Belle would wake from.

But no—for as she ventured away from Kingsbridge and into a thicker part of the city, she knew that she'd never wake up. This dream, this fretful nightmare, was now her very own life. She'd never wake up. The snow that continued to fall taunted her, for it'd blanketed her in a discomforting chill. And as night permanently thickened over New York City, she found herself lost. Large, unfamiliar buildings abounded. The wind seemed to sneer at her as she rounded a dark corner, flinching at every noise a stranger made.

At last, an open door. It was only partially opened, but the light inside was warm. From the looks of it, it wasn't a house. A sign was by the door. Cheerful sounds of laughter and music were within, and though poor Belle couldn't read the letters on the sign, it seemed as good a place as any to stay warm. The sounds of people seemed far from the door. She'd sneak in, small and quiet as a mouse.

The music had ebbed with her arrival. Warm lights all over lit her way, a sure reminder to Belle at just how sleepy she was. _Perhaps I could sleep here, just for a little while._

As if her request had manifested itself into a magical command, her eyes settled upon a small curtained-off area. Behind it resided a plump, soft batch of clothing. Cotton, linen, silk… buttons all around and lace everywhere. Upon further inspection by a small hand pressed into the pile, it seemed very soft. Yes, this would do. Would she be caught? _Would it really matter?_ The noise continued to peter out and it rather encouraged Belle to take the initiative—even more so than she had in the past few, nightmarish hours. She peeled back the little curtain and climbed into the little closet of rags, nestling in, perhaps hiding for fear of being told to go away.

She might have rested there for a half an hour. During that time, she remained awake and noticed the sounds of people ebbing from a large crowd to a few loud, but happy voices. It was almost unfair that they were so happy. _Had they never lost a mother and a home in the same hour?_ The very thought of it misted into Belle's weary eyes, and for the first time, she understood the seriousness of what had happened. The nightmare was real. Ma was gone, and she'd never come back for her. A soft sob elicited from her throat as she hugged a nearby pile of warm clothes, shivering involuntarily. _She'd never come back. I'm all alone._

Footsteps. The merriment and laughter grew louder, closer, and Belle was presently trying _so_ very hard to keep her whimpering low. She couldn't be caught. Where else would she go? The murmuring was blissfully unaware of hers, but from the sounds of things it was only a few yards away. Exchanges of goodnights and see you tomorrows were bid. Then another little joke and a hearty laugh. "If only your father heard you say such a thing."

Belle tensed. The curtain revealed light underneath, hovering its hem just above the worn, hardwood floor. Two pairs of feet remained, and one pair hesitated.

"Whazzat?"

"What's what?"

"I heard somethin'."

"Oh, it must be those silly mice running around back here. They don't scare me." A jolly laugh. "Come on. You go home. I can't keep letting you come to the evening shows with your friends if you don't get some sleep after!"

"Okay." The voice was hesitant. "I'll hurry up right away. G'night."

A rustle of fabric suggested the lady of the two had scurried away with a few others, laughing merrily, her voice and theirs trailing all the way. But the other pair of feet remained to be seen, as if convinced that the noises were certainly not a mouse's doing. "Who's there, huh?" The voice was defiant, challenging, almost looking for something to jump out and fight.

There'd be none of that with Belle, who simply tried to stay as quiet as possible, though a whimper of panic elicited through her clamped-tight lips. Then, the inevitable occurred: the dust from the low rafters just above her was now getting the best of her. Her nose tingled. _No, no, anything but that!_ "…Ahhh-CHOO!"

The pair of feet rose up to the occasion and hurried closer to the curtain, lifting it up in victory before Belle could even finish rubbing her nose. "Aha! I gotcha!" The face belonged to a boy just slightly older than Belle, but certainly taller, and it fell in disappointment that the discovery wasn't any more scary than a little girl. "You ain't what I thought you were."

Belle remained silent but bewildered. What did this boy think she was supposed to be? A monster? A mouse?

"You don't talk much," he concluded. "What's your name, kid?"

She continued to remain silent, both out of habit and out of shyness. She'd never been intruded upon like that, especially not by a boy with the confidence of a prize fighter.

"Well, that's okay I guess. You can tell me when you wanna." He unattractively wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve, extending a hand with a hopeful smile. The smile widened in amusement when Belle shrank from him. "An' that's okay too, kid. I'm prob'ly all smelly from sellin' anyhow."

There was another pause where Belle hesitated, but edged a little closer to him. "You won't tell anyone I hid here, will you?"

A boyish laugh. "Not to worry, kid… A secret's always safe with Jack Kelly."


	6. The Stray

_Rah, I'm very sorry for taking this long to crank out another chapter. Now that we've actually introduced the boys of Duane Street, I'm sure it'll give me a lot more inspiration than ever before! As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, and sticking by this story even when I'm not so sure. You are AMAZING._

**CHAPTER SIX.**  
_Winter – 1893_

It wasn't long before Belle had agreed to follow the boy that'd introduced himself as Jack Kelly. He led her through a maze of alleys, streets, and the like, dodging corners so sharply that she'd often lost sight of him. Each time she'd temporarily lost him, she'd gain another bolt of energy, tottering behind him all the more quickly. This rather peeved Jack, who clearly didn't make a habit out of escorting orphans from one place to the other.

"Come on, kid. Keep up with me, all right?"

Belle snorted in frustration. _Easy for him to say. His legs are long as a grasshopper's!_ And still, she hurried, hugging close her tattered coat with bare hands and a little puff of vaporized breath escaping as its own little rhythm.

Seeing her totter along all the faster brought a grin to the older boy's face. It looked, Belle decided, like a smile almost too big for his face, that he'd have to grow into it for it to look proper. The grin was followed by an inevitable chuckle of amusement. "You look funny, scamperin' around like that."

"I'm trying to keep _up_," she insisted vehemently, taking this opportunity to pause and catch her breath. "You walk too fast."

"Do not," he immediately retorted, though he still wore that grin. "But while I'm stopped, might as well get in a smoke."

He squared his shoulders and leaned carelessly against the nearest wall, rummaging around in his pocket rather noisily until he produced a dirty, small bag of tobacco and a crinkled-up rolling paper. As he tapped the tobacco into the rolling paper, Belle had to giggle softly to herself. It'd appear that smoking was something new to the young man. He didn't appear to have the knack of it quite yet, stumbling all over himself, victoriously sealing it shut after a few moments of wrestling with it. A good deal of the tobacco, Belle noticed, didn't even make it into the resulting cigarette. But Jack lit it up anyway with a box of matches also produced from one of his pockets, taking a stylishly long drag, expelling the smoke into the air. "Ah." As if to not seem rude, he proffered it to Belle. "Here; you wanna smoke?"

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "N-No. Thank you."

The answer amused Jack, who coughed a little, muttered something about taking too long of a drag that time, and took a smaller dose the next. As the exhaled smoke wafted its way towards Belle, she felt her eyes sting and her throat get a little dry, but she concluded to herself that coughing would be babyish and rude. She rustled about in her own satchel as she waited, where she spied her little carved fairy at the bottom, almost chastising her with painted blue eyes. _You'd better not be getting yourself into a scrape the likes of which I can't help you out of, Belle Malone._

"How old are you?" Jack finally asked, only halfway through with his cigarette.

She perked to attention slightly, closing up her chastising fairy into her satchel again. "Ten years old." Her eyes seemed to place the question back at him, but she didn't word it outright.

"I'm eleven," he said proudly. "Been smoking for almost three months now." That was a milestone in itself, to be sure. "My old man taught me, see." His voice seemed to be a little edgy after that, but he decided to change the subject entirely: "You're not _really_ ten, are ya?"

"Yes, I am." She said it with as much fervency as she could muster. Maybe Belle Malone was a little afraid of her own shadow at times, but she was good at telling the truth.

His eyes twinkled, obviously amused at her little retort as he flicked the butt of the cigarette down to its last ashes. "You jus' don't look like you're big enough to be ten yet. You're all small, runnin' around on those little legs. Maybe eight, but not _ten_."

"Well, _your_ legs are too long for an eleven-year old boy."

She gasped. _Did that really come out of my mouth?_ Those sorts of thoughts were always entertained in her mind, but never quite vocalized. Perhaps this long-legged smoker of a boy brought out her abrasive side. It'd take a while for Belle to conclude if that was a good or bad thing. Jack must have absorbed the comment a little stiffly, for he reached behind him and hoisted up a black, wide-brimmed hat that looked a little too big for him, just like his smile, and topped his head with it.

"I'm jus' gonna grow into them is all," he stated lowly, tipping the brim over his eyes a little. "I'm gonna grow to be even taller. Jus' like my old man." Again, he hesitated afterward, giving a nod toward the opening of the alleyway, starting to move those too-long legs and walk again. And, without a word, Belle hurried after him.

They'd only rounded another corner or two before a green-and-gold painted sign greeted them. Though Belle had yet to learn how to decipher the words, she thought the sign coupled with the warm glow of gaslight inside made for a welcoming haven. She was all the more glad when Jack headed straight toward it, smirking at Belle as she hesitated to go inside with him.

"Mouse." The tease wasn't accompanied by the sneer that Belle had anticipated. "Ain't gotta be scared 'a the lodging house."

So that's what it was: a lodging house. Just inside the building, shadows danced lightly. The place was filled with people. Boys, perhaps? Try as she might, Belle's straining eyes didn't detect a girl in the whole place. As they got closer, she could see better-defined shapes. Yes, they were boys, and they were the rowdiest lot she'd set eyes on: they galloped about the room, yelling loudly (perhaps laden with more than just the occasional obscenity). Even the quiet ones situated themselves suspiciously about a table, weathered playing cards in their hands. Just like the day when she met the three boys in the park, her hands felt all clammy as she clenched them tightly around her satchel. _Boys don't like girls, do they? _Like a blindly obedient puppy, Belle hurried after Jack as he pressed the door open, staying close by, but unfortunately remaining visible to the other occupants of the room.

The silence rushed at her in waves. First, the card-playing set around the little table set their cards down, their eyes large with bewilderment. They shushed the nearby rowdy set, and those that had assumed broomsticks as horses let their steeds drop to the floor clumsily. The noise then passed off to the oldest boys, who'd been lurking in the back and eyed the intruder skeptically, only to shrug and continue smoking and flipping through a ratty magazine.

Jack, evidently, pretended that their entrance had gone unnoticed, giving Belle a nudge toward a large desk. "Klopp!" he called. "Klopp, c'mere for a second!"

Belle's nose crinkled in bewilderment, wondering who Klopp was supposed to be. Surely not one of the already-present, already-gawking boys? It half-surprised her to see a smallish, older fellow hurry to the front desk, struggling in getting his spectacles on and harrumphing something or other along the way.

"What'd you do this time, Cowboy?"

If Belle were of a mind, she would have corrected the old man, saying that this boy was Jack Kelly and not a cowboy… whatever that was, but Jack seemed receptive, twisting his mouth into a pensive frown. "Didn't do nothin', I promise." He fidgeted a little, placing his hands deep in his pants pockets before adding: "We still got an open bunk, right?"

"Maybe. Depends on who's asking."

"_I'm_ askin'." He lowered his voice, leaning awkwardly over the desk. "See, I found an orphan that ain't got a place to stay. Caught it sleepin' backstage at Medda's, an' I was thinkin' that…"

"Ohh, no you don't." The old man waved a hand dismissively, though he bore the smirk of a fellow who was probably quite mischievous in his youth. "You brought in more strays in the past month—_three _of 'em, Cowboy. The first one was that mutt pup. Did his business all over the parlor an' guess who had to clean that up?"

Jack only snickered.

"…_Then_ you bring in that five year-old boy from Long Island. 'Needs a bed,' you told me. 'He ain't gonna be _no_ trouble,' you said. Two days later, what does he do? He takes all my doggoned silver and splits town!"

"How was I s'posed to know he'd be some kinda crook?" Jack retorted, giving Belle an obligatory, if abrasive, pat on the shoulder. "Does _this_ look like the face of another crook, Kloppy?"

Klopp squinted over the edge of the desk through the scratched-up spectacles at the orphan Jack indicated. If Belle bore the face of an innocent, it was by sheer coincidence; the only expression she wore was one of discomfort, like an animal in a cage. _An orphan?_ Well, perhaps she really was one now… no Ma, and never any Da. She felt herself take a half-step backward, only to have it canceled out with another nudge from Jack.

"Puh. Don't let Cowboy scare you none," the old man assured, addressing Belle directly. "An' don't get in the habit of calling me Klopp like this one does. That's Mister Kloppman to you. Gotta have someone get it right… You ain't got parents, little girl?"

She shook her head in response, curling her fingers around her satchel even more.

"And no place to sleep?"

Another shake of her head.

Mr. Kloppman gave Jack a skeptical look. "You brought me a mute, Cowboy?"

"No, she talks… A little bit."

"What's her name?"

Jack opened his mouth to start answering that he hadn't the foggiest idea, but an interruption surprised everyone from behind.

"Lookit! It's Belle!"

Never in her life had Belle been so glad to see a trio of ragtag boys. The one doing the exclaiming leaned on a very familiar crutch, waving blissfully with the other one. The other two were just as she remembered: Anthony and… Mush, was it? A wave of relief settled over her. The boys from the park! So that's where they ended up…

"How come you ain't in the Bronx no more, kiddo?" Anthony tucked away a fresh cigar in his vest pocket.

"Well, I—"

"Belle?" This was news to Jack. "That's your name? Belle?"

"'Course it is!" Crutchy hobbled toward Jack. "We met her in the Bronx way back. She lives there with her mother, yeah? How come you went all the way to Duane Street? Ain't she gonna be worried aboutcha?"

"I… I don't really…" Belle felt terrible for even indicating the news that she didn't have her mother anymore, so she simply shook her head and tried to brush away any impending tears as quickly as they arrived.

"Aw, no." Mush spoke up, translating for the rest of the unaware boys: "She ain't got a mother no more."

"I know!" Crutchy declared, giving Jack a nudge with his elbow. "Let her use that old bunk that no one's using! She can stay here for a little bit!"

"That's what I was already going to _do_." Jack scrunched up his face a little, visibly flustered that someone else had known the stray kid before he did. "But Kloppy don't trust me on account of the other strays I bring in."

Anthony snorted, whipping off his navy blue cap, only to re-situate it back atop his head. "Pfft. Ain't got nothing to worry about with this one, Kloppman. This kid's a mouse. Just as quiet an' even more skittish." He smirked teasingly at Belle, who frowned slightly, shuffling her feet indignantly. _Why was she always a mouse?_

Kloppman sighed at length and looked at the other boys. "Well, one of you's gotta give me a nickel or she's sleeping on the street."

All the boys looked to Jack, who grumbled indistinctly and reached into his pocket, which jingled noticeably with a good amount of coins. He produced a single nickel and passed it across the desk. "C'mon… Belle." Jack seemed to stumble over the name, frowning at the way it didn't quite roll off his tongue. As he led the way up a flight of old wooden stairs, expecting her to follow, he mused aloud to himself: "Belle. That ain't no good. Everyone gets a nickname here sooner or later."

"Call her Mouse!" Anthony called, already on his way up the stairs as well.

"No, that ain't original. There's different kinds of mouses, so she's gotta be a special kind, yeah?" He looked to Belle for approval, pleased to see he'd elicited at least a grin from the orphan girl. "We'll call her Backstage Mouse, on account of that's where I found her."

"_You_ found her," Anthony chuckled under his breath at the irony of it all.

"Backstage Mouse." Mush wasn't far behind, and he tried the name on for size as they entered a big room filled with bunk beds and strewn-about clothes. "That's kind of a mouthful, ain't it Cowboy?"

"Yeah, well, that's what we're calling her," he said stubbornly, removing his hat and red bandana, looping both over a bedpost at the top bunk, hoisting himself up to sit on his bed. "See that one right there, Backstage Mouse?" He nodded indicatively to the top bunk immediately to his left, where the sheets were still crisply tucked in. "That can be your bed."

And as Belle tackled the top bunk, trying to situate herself onto it, the other boys went about their bedtime preparations: unceremoniously tossing shoes to the floor and punching their pillows into a softened submission. She wasn't keen on dumping anything anywhere, however, and she placed her own shoes in her bag, hanging it by the loops from the bedpost, trying not to draw _too_ much attention to herself in the process. It was already bad enough being stared at with all the intrigue young boys had in observing a stray puppy, but she had a bed, at least. She couldn't ask for much more than that. _Perhaps the fairy really was taking care of things._

She ultimately surrendered herself to a curled-up position on her side, trying to find a comfortable way to sleep. She rolled over to her right, observing Jack's interest in a thin little book with a brightly-colored cover, flipping pages excitedly, grinning to himself.

"What is that you're reading?" she found herself asking.

"Western Jim," he declared proudly. "He's a cowboy in Santa Fe. It's a brand new book… just got it from the dimestore yesterday." He remained silently engrossed by it, only to pose a question to her as he flipped another page: "So you like your name, Backstage Mouse?"

"It's a lot to remember," she admitted softly, slipping her forearm under the pillow to prop her head up.

"Well, that's just your long nickname," he explained, perhaps making it all up as he went along. "See him?" Jack nodded to Anthony's bunk. "We call him Race, but his real nickname's Racetrack." He ultimately set his book aside, giving Belle a slight smile. "You're still real sad 'bout your mother, huh."

She had to nod in agreement, sighing so heavily she felt her whole body rise and fall.

"Well, it's okay now. 'Cause I'm gonna be your big brother now, all right?" He nodded, pleased with his own arrangement and surrendered the Western Jim book under his pillow. "But you gotta get some sleep."

As someone else dimmed the gaslights in the room, Belle tried to close her eyes and get herself in a proper state of mind for sleep. Next to her, she heard Jack rustling around, probably finding a soft spot in the mattress, too.

"G'night, Cowboy." Well, if everyone else called him that, so would she.

She thought he grinned a little. "G'night, Stagey." There was a pause, and he sighed pleasantly to himself. "Yeah. Stagey. That's it."


	7. Seamstressing for Medda

_Once again, thank you to my beautiful little legion of followers. Now that we've fully arrived at Duane Street, we just might be able to pick up some more. Whaddya say, huh? Please note my plea for help after this chapter, but don't skip the context by, heh. Please and thank you!_

**CHAPTER SEVEN.**  
_Spring – 1895_

"That's fine, Fanny, that's fine. Put on the gold dress and we'll see if it needs alterations."

"It might, Medda. It's too big in the waist, I think."

"Hmm. So it is. Stagey?"

Belle – who now responded to "Stagey" as her primary name and also introduced herself as such, now eleven and-a-half years old – was present, but only half paying attention. Sure, she'd heard the words but she was somehow disassociated from responding to them, instead focusing her attention on a sign, freshly painted and ready to place at the front door: MISS MEDDA LARKSON: THE SWEDISH MEADOWLARK – PERFORMING THIS WEEKEND A happy feeling settled over her. She could read each and every one of those words! It was an internal celebration, after all, for one simply did not declare that one could read.

Nevertheless, she _was_ happy about the whole thing. If you'd have asked her three months ago what that exact same sign read, Stagey would have shaken her head bashfully, feeling utterly stupid for never having learned to read or write. But now, well…

"Stagey?"

Medda's voice was never really angry, but it did adopt an amused weight to it, causing Stagey to start and turn toward her and Fanny, one of Medda's chorus girls, dark eyes wide with embarrassment.

"Oh—oh!" She all but dropped her sewing kit in the process. "I'm sorry, Miss Larkson."

"Medda," she corrected gently, offering a smile. She was never much one for having her employees, or anyone else for that matter, call her by Miss Larkson. "I need you to pin Fanny's dress – here, at the seams of the bodice – when I fold it. All right?"

With a pinch full of pins at the ready, Stagey pinned delicately where Medda indicated, nodding slightly to herself. Though she'd never really sewn her own clothes, Belle had learned a thing or two from Ma, who used to work eighteen-hour days as a seamstress. With that knowledge, Jack presented Stagey to Medda in the very same week he'd taken her in at Duane Street, and she was certainly kind enough to provide her with a bit of employment as a costume attendant at Irving Hall. Medda gave her almost fifty cents a day, and she only had to spend a nickel of it every night for her bed at Duane Street. Kloppmann had insisted that, though Stagey wasn't really a newsboy, she was quiet enough to stay at Duane Street as long as she needed.

The newsboys themselves were an intriguing bunch. Though she'd been acclimated into the world of Duane Street for nigh on two years, Stagey still shrank into herself sometimes, but living with a multitude of boys made her less afraid to speak up in a crowded room than she was before. There were so many different types there – from the happy-go-lucky Crutchy, to bashful Mush, to mischievous Blink, to a kid named Boots who was even a little younger than Belle was – that it made Belle feel at home most of the time.

And then there was Jack. From the very first day, he'd appointed himself as a big brother to her and, sure enough, he lived up to his word. He'd gotten her a place to sleep at night, a job to earn that few cents each day… and Jack had even, on a very need-to-know basis, taught the Backstage Mouse how to read.

It was never much at a time, simply fragments: day-old newspapers for textbooks, scratch paper to even practice lettering on. Jack wasn't a scholar, but on some days he would stop by Irving Hall right after a day's work, present Stagey with the reading material of the day, and teach her a few sounds, letters, and the like. It wasn't always perfect, and there were times when he'd get so flustered that he'd call off the lesson entirely, but all the same, he was a terrific "big brother."

…But, did big brothers make their presumed little sisters' palms sweat at a mention of their presence? Though Stagey didn't know, having had no such thing as a sibling before, she was fairly sure that the accompanying knots in her stomach weren't of a fraternal, platonic nature.

"What's lined up for the rest of the day, Medda?" Fanny asked, hands delicately at her bustle, giving it a little fluff.

Medda took to rustling through a rack of costumes just nearby. "Oh, not much. It's Tuesday, after all, and there's no evening show… maybe I'll close up shop early today, though I might need you to rehearse the ballet number with the girls before you go." She held up a green dress to herself. "But we can always count upon Jack Kelly bringing some of his friends to the matinee today."

Fanny flinched. "Stagey! Babydoll, you've _got_ to watch where you poke those straight pins!"

"Sorry." She sighed, trying to keep her hands from sweating up. After all, Jack's arrival at an Irving Hall matinee meant next to nothing. In fact, his absence would be more of a surprise than his arrival. Even so…

"Twitchy as a cat's tail," Fanny scolded playfully. "What's gotten into you, girly?"

"Nothing at-all."

She shook her head, steadying herself again to be pinned. "Listen to that: 'Nothing at-all.'" She mimicked Stagey's persistent Irish accent. "I'm almost sad that I lost my own Irishness. All these years being in the States…" She shrugged, leaving it at that, and Stagey almost finished pinning the alterations when…

"Hey, lookit: a Swedish meadowlark an' an Irish mouse!"

"_Ow!_ Stagey, I'm _not_ a pincushion!"

"Sorry, Fanny… I didn't mean it!"

"Kelly!" Medda always feigned embarrassment when Jack came prowling around the backstage area before a show, but everyone knew that she doted upon that boy as if he were her own. "This is a _dressing_ area. What if one of my girls was indecent when you burst in like that?"

"All the more reason." He grinned wickedly, a smile that started to befit him at thirteen. "One of these days I'll stumble in at the right time." He nodded to a few dancers with all the confidence of a playboy-in-training. "Afternoon, Miss Fanny. Stagey-mouse." He winked.

"Hi, Cowboy." Stagey was too "busy" putting away her sewing kit that she didn't see the wink.

Medda thwapped Jack on the backside with her feather. "Any more flirting at my girls and I'll start making you pay for a ticket, Kelly!"

"Flirting? Me?" He turned to Stagey for some reinforcement, nudging her a little. "Nah. Perish the thought, _Miss_ Larkson." This elicited a slight giggle from Stagey whether she wanted to do so or not, and that was always the sort of reaction Jack went for. Satisfied, he left Stagey's side and went elsewhere backstage as he always did: rapping on the doors of the chorus girls' dressing rooms and laughing heartily when they threw things at him to leave.

"—Ain't that right, Stagey?"

"Huh?"

"Did you even hear a word I said?" Fanny's eyes crinkled at the corners teasingly, hands on her hips.

"Sure I did." A pause. "…Well, you know—not really."

"Figured." She shook her head, taking the pins out of her hairstyle, letting lose a few fair-colored tresses. "I said, 'Jack Kelly's going to grow up with twelve girls on each arm,' I said." Stepping behind a screen, she added, "Help me out of this get-up so you can alter it for me, huh?"

And Stagey followed, easing Fanny from her confined corset, readying the silk robe to wrap around her. "I don't think that's quite true," she finally said.

"What isn't?"

"That Jack will have twelve girls on each arm."

"Then what _will_ he do, pray tell?"

"I think he'll marry a girl and go to Santa Fe," she said after a thoughtful pause. "He doesn't need lots of girls."

"Marry one girl, huh?" Fanny smirked as she tied her robe's belt around her waist. "That girl's going to be you, is it?"

"Maybe… Wait. _What?_"

* * *

_Okay, faithful readers, here's where I need you most. For I'm quite stuck as to how fast I want this story to progress, and I'd like to hear your thoughts on the subject in your upcoming reviews. Would you rather…_

_- continue at this pace (each chapter takes place a few months after the once preceding it),  
- move a little faster (perhaps one chapter for each year they age), or  
- fast-forward these years entirely and get to a more strike-worthy 1899?_

_I'm ready to tackle either one, I think, but I'd very much like to hear from those who are reading it before I make any decisions. Thanks SO much for helping me to make this story even better, and I look forward to hearing your feedback as always!  
_


	8. Belated Birthday

_It seems that reading some J.K. Rowling has put my backside in gear for my eighth chapter. To all six of my faithful readers: thanks. We now return to the foibles of one 1899 Bridget Jones: our very own Belle Malone. Enjoy._

**CHAPTER EIGHT**  
_Summer – 1896_

After having navigated through a backstage labyrinth of costume racks, lines of chorus girls, and moved-around set pieces, Stagey approached the little door. It wasn't hard to find, really; it was just more difficult to _get_ there on the morning before Medda's new show. The distinct pleasure of having nothing else to do for the rest of the day seized her, and she jostled the handle, opening the door to her room.

It was a meager sort of room, one that was just enough for the not-quite-notorious Backstage Mouse. It was situated beneath the loft on the stage-left wing, wooden walls separated with the occasional steel beam. It always echoed with sounds: band music, chorus girl giggles, stagehands shouting orders. It provided a natural sort of ambience that soothed Stagey when she restlessly tossed and turned in her bed, and it made her dreams pleasant ones, for the most part.

Crossing inside, Stagey took care to leave the door open a smidge – her own signal to anyone else passing by that she welcomed any visitors – then opened a small drawer in a bedside table. Inside was a dried flower, a blunt-tipped pencil, and several sheets of scratch paper upon which Stagey had practiced her writing over the past year or so. Her hand was getting steady now, her letters smoothly connected in script that was pretty enough, all things considered. _Pretty enough._ At the back of the drawer, carelessly pushed aside to make room for more scholarly attempts, was the little fairy figurine. Rosebud. Stagey sighed, reaching in a bit farther to gather the figurine, dusting her, and still those painted eyes grinned at her. _It's been a while, hasn't it, Belle Malone?_

A sense of nostalgia tickled her insides, and Stagey was about to place Rosebud on top of the table instead of inside of it – a nice delicate place for such a delicate little fairy…

_Knock. Knock knock._

In a frenzy to reach the door, Belle shamefully tucked Rosebud under her pillow. "Did you change your mind, Medda?" she called, assuming that'd be her visitor. "I can mend those costumes tonight, if you – "

Jack's brow furrowed bewilderedly. "Huh?"

She whirled around, a little slack-jawed with embarrassment. "Oh… hi there, Cowboy." Her voice softened automatically, as it usually did when she was suddenly faced with the boy that she thought about, perhaps a little too much for her own good.

"Aw, c'mon. What's with the change of tone? I liked it better when you thought I was Medda." He raised hazel eyes to survey the door frame and the room it contained, letting out a low whistle of approval. "So this is your new room now, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can I come in?"

"Of course." She turned back toward her bed to straighten the blankets in an effort to conceal her blush. What was she so nervous about, anyway?

Jack took slow, thoughtful steps around the little room, smiling faintly. "It's real nice, Stagey. A real girly sorta room. Well, I mean – it's not runnin' over with boys all the time…" He appeared to be wrestling with his own words, whipping his hat off in frustration.

"It's real nice," she echoed, trying to fiddle with her few belongings so as to seem too busy to glance at him for too long. Silence lingered a few moments longer.

"Uh, is this a bad time?"

"Not really… Why do you say that?"

"'Cause you're all quiet."

"I'm always quiet." Stagey allowed a self-scorning grin to tickle her lips, but she felt sorry that she wasn't as chatty – even for her. "What brings you over here? Medda doesn't have an evening show tonight…"

"Yeah, I know." Jack squared his nearly fifteen year-old shoulders. "I just wanted to hang around for a little while…"

"Oh..."

"And, 'cause, y'know – I sorta miss you, a little. You know?"

Stagey would have danced for joy if Jack didn't look so uncomfortable admitting such a sweet thing. "Well, it's not like I'm all that far away," Stagey said as helpfully as she could. "Doesn't even take me ten minutes to walk from here to Duane Street. And my legs aren't even as long as yours, so…" She offered a smile.

"It just ain't the same." Jack was only partially paying attention to Stagey's words; he seemed rather intent on articulating his own. "The kid that sleeps in your bunk now? He's all runny-nosed. Ornery, too. I don't like rollin' over at night and having to look at _that_."

She absorbed it with a murmur and a nod, feeling all tingly inside. Maybe Jack wasn't entirely gifted with pretty things to say, but she always knew what he meant. When he was deep in thought, his brow would furrow together, and even if he wasn't entirely sure of himself, he'd always punctuate a statement with that carefree grin of his. It was as though he knew he could charm Stagey into saying anything, a fact that was especially true nowadays.

"—Oh!" He paused in his temporary rant, reaching into his newspaper bag that was partially slung over his shoulder, producing a parcel wrapped in newspaper. "Here. It's for you."

"For me?" _Well, of course it is, Malone. Didn't he just say that?_ She took it gingerly, turning it over in her hands. "What is it?"

"Well, see, it's _inside_ the newspaper part," Jack told her with a matter-of-fact grin. "So, y'know, you've gotta tear it open."

And as she did, her eyes were met with a bit of tan. Then white. A book? She leafed through the pages, only to discover that they were blank. "A journal," she realized. Her smile – all too eager and grateful to be kept a secret – widened as she sat upon the edge of her bed, poring over the blissfully empty pages. "Do you think I'll be able to fill it?"

"I'd be more surprised if you didn't. An' I know we all sorta forgot your birthday last month… but maybe this makes up for it a little?"

She nodded earnestly, shamelessly smoothing her fingers over the spine. Her very own journal. She hadn't had one since the Irish leather one Auntie gave her before coming to America. And now that she could write anything – well, almost anything… "It's beautiful." She peeked up at him gratefully. "Thank you, Cowboy."

"Aw, well…" He coughed out a bashful laugh, dismissing it as he eased himself onto the bed as well. "Thank the other fellas too… we all put a few cents together. But I contributed the most." And there was that cocky smile of his.

Quiet embraced them for a little while, and it rather suited them both just fine. Jack appeared to be without pressure to say anything, and Stagey rather reveled in having a little peaceful silence once in a while. As they wordlessly sat together, Jack unceremoniously leaned into her pillow from the other end of the bed, sitting up with a slightly pained expression. "Ow. Hey, what's –?"

Stagey's heart dropped into her stomach when Jack pawed around beneath the mattress and produced the little wooden fairy. He eyed it curiously with that bewildered brow-furrow. For the very first time, Belle Malone was ashamed of dear little Rosebud – a mere toy that didn't seem to befit a girl that had just turned thirteen.

"…Stagey-mouse? This yours?" His mouth turned upwards, his eyes twinkling; a sure sign that a tease would inevitably follow.

It would have been difficult to fabricate an entire lie about how the fairy doll _wasn't_ hers, honestly. She confirmed his suspicions with a little nod, her shoulders sinking, eyes rolled slightly with humiliation. "I've had it since I lived in Ireland," she explained at once. "My auntie gave it to me." She didn't need to lie, but she also didn't need to mention how she still believed in the sprightly spirit inside that wooden figurine, and that it comforted her when she felt sad or lonely.

She really did expect Jack to tease her about it. He always made fun of the younger newsies on Duane Street for still having a blanket or a stuffed animal, after all, and he looked ready to continue the tradition with her, but as his lips parted to make those words appear, they seemed to change over to say something else he probably didn't plan on: "She's pretty. Does she have a name?"

"No," was her instant reply. Then, after a moment: "Yes. Rosebud." She even poked at the namesake flower clutched in the fairy's hands for emphasis. "See?"

Jack nodded, twirling the figurine in his fingers with a thoughtful look. "What was she doing hiding behind your pillow, huh? Seems to me that she should be seen." He reached over to the bedside table, settling Rosebud right where Stagey had intended to place her all alone. "There. That's better."

"Then you don't think it's silly?"

"Think what's silly?"

"That I… y'know, have a fairy doll."

"Eh, not really. If you had a baby blanket, though, I might have to give you a hard time…" He grinned.

"But I'm already thirteen," she insisted. "Wasn't I supposed to do away with fairies a long time ago?"

"Nah." He grunted as he pushed himself off the bed, rising to his feet. "It's okay for girls to think about that sorta stuff." He awkwardly dusted off his trouser fronts as though he'd just been rolling in the dirt. "You don't gotta change, Stagey… I don't think you ever should."

He didn't stay much longer after that, and as soon as Jack left, Stagey took care to close her door, hurry to her bed, and open up her new journal, creasing the first page eagerly. Fetching the pencil from her drawer, she began to write.

_14 of July 1896._

_Dear diary –_

_This is my very first page in a new journal that Cowboy got for my birthday. (My real birthday was a month ago, but I like my present just the same.) Cowboy visited for a long time… so long that I had to light the gas lamp before I started writing. He knows about Rosebud now, but he didn't laugh at me! He said it's good for girls to believe in fairies._

_Cowboy is my best friend. I think I'm his best friend too._


	9. The Joint

_Welcome back, faithful ones. Inspiration: my own Belle Malone feelings. Should make for a pretty fun addition, eh? To make up for the hiatus, you get the equivalent of an hour-long chapter (as opposed to the typical half-hour ones). Don't forget to nag me about updating; I always need it._

**CHAPTER NINE**

_Early Winter - 1897_

Belle's thirteenth year passed by faster than the twelve that came before it – so fast, in fact, that she opened her eyes on her fourteenth birthday and expected it all to be in place again: Rosebud tucked haphazardly under a pillow, the prattle of stagehands, Jack awkwardly popping his head in and presenting her with a crisp, new journal.

That journal had long since been filled, all dog-eared and toyed with until some of the pages fell out, and Belle had saved up to get her own journal that wasn't quite as nice as the first one. And though she wrote in the new one faithfully, her eyes would always travel to older entries in the older journal: _Cowboy's my best friend. I think I'm his best friend too._

A few entries later: _Jack came to two of Medda's shows and after, he taught me how to tie a lasso. Where we'll need to lasso things in New York City, I'll never know. But I had so much fun… I wish we would do that more often. I feel really happy when he wants to be friends._

And then, towards the back of the journal: _He promised he'd show me how to skip rocks near the Brooklyn docks, but it's been two hours and he still hasn't come by. It's all right if he's forgotten; I just wish he'd tell me one way or the other._

In fact, Cowboy was entirely scarce these days, so much so that Stagey would get all squirmy inside when some of the Duane Street newsies would pay Medda a visit. Would he be there today, for example, as newsies dressed in tattered coats, gloves, and hats shivered their way into the warmth of the backstage area?

"You can't always do this, you know." Fanny, hands on her hips, looked cross. "Comin' in here, thinking you can catch a glimpse up a respectable lady's—"

"Not today, Fanny." Race, who all too eagerly flirted with Medda's lead actress on any normal day, looked even _more_ cross. In fact, he appeared downright sullen. His hands fretfully wrung his green cap, twitching his mouth to one side.

Her guard was dropped. "Well, kid, I'm _sorry_, but that don't mean—"

A clumsy _thwack_ sounded from a broomstick hitting the floor. Stagey knocked it over as she meandered to the group, only to have Blink stumble over himself to put it back upright again. "Sorry," was her mousey murmur.

"Hiya Stagey." Crutchy always had the politeness to say hello to Stagey first, even when no one else did. Even so, today he looked like he had a lot more on his mind than just manners.

"Hi Crutchy," she replied, nodding a little with a managed smile. Then the stupid question followed: "…Is everything all right?"

The question gave way to an awful, silent pause. Race wrung his hat more fervently, Crutchy hopped a little distractedly, and Blink's visible eye seemed to look at everything else but a person.

"What's happened?" she asked, for surely something must have.

The silence was broken as Boots skidded into the room, evidently late for something or other as he leaned against the doorframe to catch his breath from the run.

"Wha'd ya find out, Boots?" Race demanded, not shedding any more light on what was still unknown to Stagey.

He shook his head. "They ain't lettin' him go. He ain't done nothin' wrong and they ain't lettin' him go…"

"Who's not? What's happened?"

"Where they takin' him?" Blink finally spoke up.

"Two blocks away… the one next to the hospital."

Boots was still young – two years younger than Stagey, at least – and seemed to operate on naiveté instead of experience. "They'll let him go tomorrow though, right? Can't be that bad to steal an apple from the cart. Not like murder or somethin'…"

Race's face looked sullen as he shook his head wordlessly, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

"What's _happened_?" Stagey repeated more tersely, feeling her fists clench.

A look was exchanged among the boys, as if the next one to speak had to tell her the bad news. Race looked like he was about to throw up, shaking his head in frustration as he lit another cigarette. Fanny saw that Boots got a cup of water to calm him down. Blink firmly shoved his hands in his pockets, and Crutchy looked sadder than Stagey had ever seen him before.

"Jack's in jail," he said.

Something fell around her, but she didn't bother to pick it up. "What's he done?" she asked as soon as she found her voice. "The… the apple?" She tried to remember some of the conversation that was just had. "He stole an apple? Doesn't he get a trial or something? They can't just—"

"That's just it. They _can_." Race's mouth was a hard, angry line. "Kids that get sent to the refuge don't come out too easy. City prob'ly thinks they're doin' the public a favor by keepin' rotten kids off the streets." He rolled his eyes.

"Maybe we can break him out?"

"Don't be stupid, Blink. They'd just throw you in there too." Race took a long, needed drag. "No; he's gotta get outta there himself."

As the others deliberated on how to free Jack from the refuge, Stagey shrank away. For the proverbial Backstage Mouse, it was something she could do better than anything else: sneaking about when folks were looking the other way, or perhaps just too busy to care. Heart racing, she stumbled into her bedroom just offstage, searching for her wool coat that still sort of fit her from last Christmas, when Medda gave it to her. The sleeves were too short, she decided (even little Belle Malone grew an inch or two every year), but she simply shoved them deep into her coat pockets to keep them warm and, as though she were a ghost, easily passed from the backstage door and into the chilly evening air.

Her heart was still racing long after she'd left Irving Hall, and that was for a simple, understandable reason: she was afraid – afraid of so much, really. She feared every scary sound that came from an alleyway, every drunk staggering about the sidewalk. One even murmured a "Wanna come back to Papa's place, girly?" but as she fearfully backed into some very loud tin milk containers, it scared the drunkard off. She pressed on.

Boots said that it was only two blocks away… right next to the hospital, was it? She didn't see anything that fit that description. _Next time you're brave, Belle Malone, try remembering WHERE you're supposed to go and be brave._ And worry seized her again: what if she got caught? She was entirely certain that the refuge wouldn't take kindly to Irish kids, no matter how unassuming they were. And what if Jack got angry with her for coming to find him? Would it even really matter? He'd been absent so much from her life as of late…

As she rounded a corner and had just about resolved to go home altogether, she saw a hospital. Her fists clenched, feeling a sad sort of cold moisture within. Next to the hospital, she discovered, was a building almost as big as the hospital itself. A large gate barred a real entrance to the place, but the windows on the aging brick walls were surrounded by bars. And yet, amidst the solemn, imprisoning aura of the place, Stagey could distinctly hear children's voices within those walls. This must have been the jail they'd taken Jack to. The refuge.

She tried to keep herself hidden as she edged closer to the building, her dark winter coat serving as camouflage for the covert operation she was about to undertake. Then the question arose: how was she supposed to find Jack? What if he was in one of the higher windows? Would he even be _near_ a window?

As though it were an answer to a prayer she'd yet to ask, Stagey's ears perked attentively to a window just over her left shoulder. There was a familiar voice inside.

"Ain't too concerned about it, Ten-Pin. If I get that money I deserve I'll get the hell outta New York faster than you can blink."

"Santa Fe, huh?" The other voice sounded quite younger. "Sounds real nice."

_Cowboy_. If she could just balance herself on tiptoe, perhaps even climb on top of that barrel, she just might be able to peek inside…

"I'd kill for a cigarette," Jack lamented, fiddling with his bandana nervously. 'You'd think that if they lock me up in this joint, the least they could do is…." His voice trailed off, squinting through the window.

"Is what?" Ten-Pin, a small boy of no more than eight years old, leaned forward eagerly.

"What's that in the window?"

Ten-Pin peeked toward the window. "Prob'ly some alley cat lookin' for a free handout." For a kid of about eight, he sure was wise in the ways of the world. "You know how _that_ is." Unimpressed, he went back to his cramped-looking bed, while Jack lingered, in search of whatever he'd seen. He _knew_ he saw something…

"…_Stagey?_" Jack's voice was either angry or amused; she couldn't tell from where she was hiding. There was a pause, and she could hear the sad smirk in his voice: "I know you're there, Mouse. Don't hide."

She dared to peek in at last. Though she stood on the barrel on tiptoe, she was only visible from the nose up.

"What do you think you're doing here?" A good question, really; one that deserved a good answer.

"Well, I –" Whatever bravery she had just went around a corner and far away. "I don't really know. I just know that Race and Blink and Boots said that the police took you away for nothin'."

"You're damn right it's nothin'." He seemed to say this for his own benefit and not hers, reluctantly edging closer to the window, kneeling down to keep the whole business a more covert operation than it looked at present. "Stagey… Kid, you can't be here."

"Why not?"

"You just… _can't_, okay?" It probably came out a lot harsher than he'd meant it to. "If that bastard Snyder sees you, he'll throw you right in."

A pause. Then, "What if I could help you escape?"

This apparently was the funniest thing Jack had heard all day. He covered his mouth to stifle the chuckling, shaking his head. "Escape?" he repeated once he was able. "Aw, geez, Mouse. You couldn't even get a fish to escape into water." All right, so perhaps that was true, but it still hurt a little, he was sure. "The point is, you need to go home right now. Okay?"

She didn't understand, nor did she want to. "I want to stay here." For a girl of fourteen, she sure was being as persistent as a small child. "I want to help you, Cowboy."

"Not this time, Mouse." He looked pretty sad to admit it. "Snyder says I'm here for three months."

She fell silent. _Three whole months?_ Jack could see that this was of no comfort to Stagey, and he adopted a guilty expression. "Stagey, c'mon. You gotta understand, okay? I can't help what they've done to me." There was another long pause, and he squinted between the bars of the window, sighing heavily at what he saw. "C'mon, Mouse… please don't cry…"

"I'm not."

Instead of persisting that she was, he managed to reach his hand through the bars, almost all the way up to his elbow, and with his thumb and forefinger, he smoothed a cheek that was too wet to _not_ have been dampened with tears. "Don't cry." It was more of a command this time.

"I don't want you to stay there," she insisted, hiccupping slightly. "You can't stay there. It's not right."

"Maybe I'll get let off early for good behavior," he joked. "I'll come back soon, Stagey. What I need you to do is go home now—to stay with Medda an' be good 'til I get back, okay?"

She crinkled her nose at this. Why did Jack always insist upon treating her like she was so much younger? A year or so wasn't much of a difference… From inside Jack's room, a door clicked open. Jack's eyes flashed insistently at her and he turned away to pretend nothing had happened, lest he risk getting an even longer sentence. She sighed, drooping down out of the window's view and holding her coat tightly, going back into Irving Hall's backstage entrance. Blink, Crutchy, Race, and Boots were all still there.

"How come you've got your coat on, Stagey?" asked Crutchy. They hadn't even noticed she'd been missing.

"Went out for a walk is all," she whispered, her face undoubtedly a little pink and blotchy. "I think I'm going to go to bed."

"Okay. Well… g'night."

As Stagey headed into her room and settled into bed, she could still hear them: planning escape routes for Jack, formulating diversions to get him out of there. Race even sounded like he was drawing all these ideas on some sort of map. It only disheartened her more to hear it. Cowboy didn't deserve to be in that awful place with thin mattresses and cold floors. He needed to be free, saving up for his dream. And as frustrated as Stagey was with her feelings toward him, she knew in her heart of hearts that she didn't want to go without him for that long.


End file.
